Thanks for Listening
by Baird's Girl 1997
Summary: "You wanted a Mission Report? Here you go. Waste of freaking paper if you ask me, but I guess no one asked me. I'm going back to bed." In which Damon Baird makes the poor choice of being a decent person, hurts himself, finds a friend, and writes an unnecessarily long incident report about the whole damn thing. Post GOW 1. Pre GOW 2.
1. Chapter 1

**Mission Report**

 **28th day of Frost**

(Baird's Testimony)

There's nothing like the threat of dismemberment to get you moving, I'll tell you that much. So even after witnessing the oh-so tragic passing of Sergeant Jacob Bower and his squad, I still put together the quickest escape plan of my life, followed it to a minimal extent, and got the hell out of dodge.

The following hours turned out to be problematic for a few people. Those problems include (but are not limited to) a high-speed collision, rampant dishonesty, anxiety for a friend, a preventable skull fracture, two injuries to the same arm and one very pissed off little girl.

While I will be the first to admit that poor choices were made, not all of them were mine. So how is it fair that five of those six problems fell on my shoulders?

You're probably wondering what you've just gotten yourself into by reading this. Well tough shit. It's not my idea to give written statements every time something goes wrong out on the battlefield. Hell, it's no wonder you have so many of these things sitting on your desk; _everything_ goes wrong nowadays, be it a little or a lot.

Also, there's really no point in keeping paper records; the building across the street went up in flames two weeks ago. I'm pretty sure this one doesn't have much longer. Not to mention our very real paper shortage; starting out, I thought I'd try to write as small as possible, but screw it-I'm doing this with my non-dominant arm, and coming down off morphine. You get what you get.

I digress.

For the (apparently precious) record, my name is Corporal Damon S. Baird. Delta Squad. The following statement chronicles the events of the 28th day of Frost.

Spoiler Alert: It sucked.

Was I supposed to say no to a superior officer who requested help? I didn't think I had a choice. Shit, if it was as simple as making up an excuse every time I didn't feel like doing something, trust me, I'd be on my own private island by now. But a long time ago, I was given an angry lecture by an angry man about 'Gears following orders', and I was trying to do just that when Sergeant Jacob Bower of Theta Squad came to me for help that morning.

A few things on Ol' Jacob. He was a cobweb of a man in looks and old age temperament. You know the type; wispy white hair and fragile composure, all bark and plenty of bite.

Had I heard things about him that were questionable? Yes. Did his squad have a reputation for being morally flexible? Yes. Did that make me apprehensive about getting in a vehicle with them and traveling miles away on assignment? No, and for two reasons:

Said assignment did not, in any way, contradict my own internalized code of conduct. I'm a mechanic. They wanted me to fix a truck. How could they, right?

2\. I was bored, and the prospect of getting away from the congested shithole this little city of ours has turned out to be seemed like a blessing. That I could get my hands dirty under the hood of a truck was an added bonus, not that anyone reading this cares what a forgettable soldier like me actually _enjoys_ doing. You know, what he's especially _good_ at, what makes him feel _fulfilled._ Not to point fingers or anything, (I'm actually only pointing one; front and center) but if I'd been allowed to help more often in departments that actually applied to me, maybe this whole mess wouldn't have happened. I'm aware of the fact that I'm in demand, but forgive me for not seeing "fixing a civilian washing machine and/or toaster oven" as my one true calling.

So yes, I was easy to the guy who offered me the possibility of grease under my fingernails. Funny how no one argues about you all sitting with your thumbs up your asses all day long. I guess we're good at what we're good at, and we like what we like. Let's laugh collectively. Let's move on.

Here was the plan: the five of us take a Pack Horse to the city of Hale. I'd fix a downed Centaur that had, according to them, been grounded for a few weeks now. They'd scavenge for other supplies, and we'd be back in lovely Jacinto before dinner. Easy-peasy, if only it went that way.

Some of you will remember Hale as being the city everyone wanted to see before they died; lights, cameras, and movie star shit making the place a gimmicky tourist trap that brought in crazies from all over Tyrus. Today, you can visit for the affordable price of your sanity, and bring back such souvenirs as lice and tetanus.

In other words, it's run by Stranded-above-mentioned crazies who never left.

I wasn't thrilled to hear that that's where we'd be heading, but like I said, I had a bad case of cabin fever that week. You might be rolling your eyes or shaking your head at the mechanic who wanted a change of scenery during the end of the world, but guess what? I stopped giving a fuck in grade school.

I didn't tell anyone where I was going because I assumed Bower had that covered. Grizzled officers like him usually like to feel in charge, and-believe it or not-I wasn't in the mood for a pissing contest. He was the sergeant. I was the private; best behavior, stiff upper lip, all that jazz. Figures, the _one_ day that I try on a sheep costume, the wolves of the world were wearing theirs too.

I got in a Pack Horse with Bower and his crew; three male Gears named Miles, Lester, and Castle. We were at Jacinto's limits by 0800, and entered Hale maybe two hours after that. The ride there, however uneventful, was punctuated by nervous energy. Bower's people were loud and twitchy, and even with their helmets on I could guess their ages by conversation and body language alone: Rookies, all of them, which kind of made me wonder more about Bower.

Not to speak ill of the dead or anything, but he seemed like the type of potato-faced old guy that would have an established group of lackeys more his age. God knows Hoffman plays favorites.

( _Kidding!)_

So the fact that Theta Squad consisted of individuals mostly under the age of twenty-five had me questioning; was Jacob Bower a wanna-be desk jockey vying for promotion by looking after the little ones? Had he lost his own crew through tragic circumstance, and was trying to redeem himself by teaching the younger generation? Was this some sort of late-life crisis?

I was thinking of a way to ask him these completely appropriate questions right as we made it to Hale. At that point, my attention was pulled elsewhere.

To put it bluntly, "The City of a Thousand Possibilities" was looking more like "Hell Froze Over, Twice." Not that war had been kind to it these past twelve years. And the Stranded certainly weren't employing sanitation workers regularly. Or ever. But when I say we drove up to a shit-show that day, I mean a complete and utter _ShitExtravaganza._ They rolled out the red carpet alright, but it wasn't made of polyester.

What I saw was Stranded men and women fighting for their lives and losing quickly against a melting pot of Locust, Wretches and Tickers under a Nemycist-riddled sky. They were along the outskirts of the city, on the freeway. Their blood looked dark, reflecting the inkspot clouds.

Bower made a sharp turn, taking us on the ramp into downtown. Through the back of the truck, I watched a Stranded woman get blown to pieces by a Boomer and suddenly wondered what the fuck was going on. We were still driving? While humans were still dying? I'm hardly an advocate for people of the _Stranded_ variety-I have lots of colorful nicknames for them, actually-but turning our backs on admittedly preventable death seemed...inhuman. Maybe I've been hanging around Marcus "Mother-Hen" Fenix too much for my own good, but at the end of the day, humanity is endangered, and it seemed ignorant to act like we didn't notice.

At that point, Bower wasn't being very communicative, and his kids' nervous chatter had died down to jagged breathing at the sight of the grubs. I opened my mouth but he cut me off, using the rearview mirror to look at me instead of the carnage behind us.

"They've been offered help, Private. We're here for a cause that _wants_ saving."

I couldn't argue with something I knew was right. The Stranded population see us as monsters no better than Locust. And twelve years ago, they might've had a point; the government hasn't always made the best choices when it comes to things like basic human decency. I was there when the hammer strikes sent millions into an ashy grave. So they're angry, I get it. But holding a grudge isn't exactly solving anything. If it's an apology they want, it might be a good idea to survive long enough to hear it.

Several blocks in, the sound of battle diminished. By the time we got to the inner city, the gunfire sounded like morse code in a padded cell. Only particularly loud screams were heard. The sky was still inked to shit, though, and maybe it was those dark clouds above our heads that made my next exchange with Bower so problematic.

It's at this point I'd like to remind you about my list of problems, specifically 'Rampant Dishonesty'.

We parked. I didn't see a Centaur. The only things in that town center were a few dirty tents and sleeping bags, empty food crates, five emaciated Stranded, and string lights connected to generators, illuminating the whole ugly picture for us.

Do you know which of those things Bower made a beeline for?

With the rest of Theta suddenly pointing their guns and barking orders like they _weren't_ scared shitless, he ushered me over to the generators.

(Gold star if you guessed correctly.)

"Get them safe for travel," he'd said.

"Sorry, _what_?" I'd said.

"Those don't belong to you!" a woman said, and the desperation in her voice outweighed the anger. I turned to look at her. She was probably younger than the fifty or so years her face painted. All of the people in that group looked particularly unwell, too pale or too old or too skinny. but they were the only one's there to protest.

It was classic urban militia; take the fight to the threat, and leave home base defenseless. It's definitely a strategy more stupid than noble, but I still felt like a dick to take advantage of a mistake like that. Yeah, 'all's fair' etcetera, but let's remember that this war isn't against people.

A pang of unease settled in my chest. Bower, on the other hand, seemed pleased-like he couldn't have planned this to happen any better. I say again, _planned_.

"So you want me to steal them?" I asked, incredulous. We haven't seen Krill in months, but don't tell me that you don't still sleep with a light next to your bed. The idea of leaving those people in the dark made my skin crawl.

"They're for a cause, Private. Something more important than you or me, or them."

"So, what, you're Robin Hood now? Stealing from the poor to give to the rich? Oh, wait…"

"I'd hardly call the COG rich."

"Yeah, but we're better off than _this_." I gestured to the skeletal individuals in the corner, who flinched at the movement. Eyes wide, faces dirty and desperate. "You're asking me to take everything they have."

"No private. Not asking."

I swallowed. "Are you serious?"

And Bower leveled his pistol at me. "Quite so, I'm afraid."

I should have seen this coming.

Blah, blah, blah.


	2. Chapter 2

While I do remember the generalized sequence of events and corresponding timeframes that followed, some of it's gone a little fuzzy. You can thank the potent mixture of adrenaline and head trauma I was forced to choke down for any inconsistencies.

So what did I say to Bower after he pointed a gun at me?

I probably tried to talk him down; all calm and level-headed and reasonable. Leadership has always been one of my best qualities. Tensions were high, sure, but I certainly wouldn't have said something along the lines of "Go fuck yourself." Does that even sound like me?

Yeah, I didn't say that.

Promise.

Anyway.

In the end, my last words to him weren't important, because they were just that-the last words Sergeant Bower ever heard.

Now, he might've noticed the silence that had engulfed the outer city like a sheet of wool, if he hadn't been so busy shoving a gun in my face. And then _I_ might've been able to explain that that sudden lack of sound probably meant one of two things: that either the Stranded had won, and they were on their way home, or that the _Locust_ had won, and you get the picture. (Let's be honest, it'd be like a flock of flying monkeys either way.)

Point being: Then and there would've been a pretty decent time to tap our ruby slippers three times fast and get the fuck back to Jacinto, or any place that felt like home, really.

But no. Bower had been dead set on getting those generators, flying monkeys-or giant flying squid things, as it happened to turn out-or not.

It's a cliche, I know, but the Reaver really did come out of nowhere. A sudden parting of clouds and screaming shrill enough to break glass were the only warnings we got before the thing landed, shaking the ground and tearing up the pavement with its jagged tendrils.

Within an instant, Bower's pistol became as threatening as a squirt gun.

For those of you who don't know-and believe me, I'm not putting anything past you at this point-a _Reaver_ is the Locust's principal battlefield conveyance. That's "horsey" to you, sans a few details. Just put on your imagination hats and picture a six legged spawn of satan that shoots rockets and lays onslaught to entire cities, carrying two gun-toting Locust the whole way. The sheer firepower on those things makes it difficult to fight them close range. Tentacles with the capacity to turn grown men into a fine jelly render it a task impossible. I won't even go into the gaping maw of a thousand-plus teeth, or the fact that they can fly.

You know, I probably won't ever get used to the way primal instinct turns my body into a machine of its own volition, but that's also probably for the best; one minute I was six feet away from certain death, the next I was behind a hollowed out minivan, not only holding a gun but shooting it. Theta seemed to forget our quarrel, too, so I guess something can be said for that Reaver; by putting our lives in danger, it got me out of a sticky situation. Oh, I didn't doubt that if we made it home alive, Bower would have a stick up his ass for the next five to seven weeks. But for the moment, I didn't have to deal with him.

Unfortunately, not all of us got to go home.

Castle was already gone. I caught a glimpse of him as my last few rounds went into the Reaver's passenger-side Locust, bloodied and broken on the pavement.

The Stranded were gone, too, but I didn't see any of their bodies; it's most likely they booked it into the bellies of crumbled infrastructure before any of us could say shit. Not that I would have; a fighting chance is all I'd wanted to give them in the first place.

Private Lester, for his credit, mustered up enough courage to unholster his Lancer and point before the Reaver fired its first round of ballistiks. There was a hiss and a boom, and for a second I was blinded by the close-range explosion. When the smoke cleared, Lester was nothing more than a stain on the sidewalk.

What's that? This is making you queasy? Well, don't let me ruin your lunch. We can change the topic to:

"Why the fuck don't you people give us enough bullets?"

In case that wasn't clear enough, this an official complaint regarding ammunition distribution. Not to be _that_ _person_ , but I'll bring up the whole paper thing again, if it gets my point across:

Along with a note to 'please use sparingly', I woke up today to find a stack of the stuff by my bedside-thanks for that, by the way. Real dignifying.

If you cared so much about people not using this dwindling resource as origami or ass paper, maybe you shouldn't hand it out like it grows on trees. Look outside-there are no trees! So far, I'm seven sheets in. A less responsible human being might've had seven airplanes by now, and you wouldn't have noticed or cared.

And yet there I was with a suddenly empty cartridge, and no goddamn bullets to remedy. Why? Oh, because _munitions_ need to be kept under lock and key. God forbid someone takes as much as they need to save the world.

Seriously, guys, make something happen. Challenge yourselves a little.

What else could I do but start looking for a way out? The Snub Pistol I had left wouldn't serve much purpose against a Reaver, and it's just as well I saved it; that ammo turned out to be really useful. I mean, there's always the _blaze of glory_ option, but I wasn't feeling it. And with Bower in his own little world of old-timey heroics, and Miles suddenly nowhere to be seen, I thought I'd take it upon myself to figure out the getaway sequence. For starters, that meant hightailing it back to the Packhorse; the turret on its bed would serve as a far superior weapon against our many-legged friend, and then it would just be a matter of picking up the rest of Theta and riding off into the sunset.

Despite whatever occured between Bower and me, I could've lived with it. And he _should_ have lived to live with it, but I couldn't stop what happened next.

By then, the Reaver's pilot was dead too, leaving us a raging bullet-sponge with no master to say 'heel'. The rockets on those things fire automatically-so we still had to duck and cover at every fifteen second interval-but for the most part, I saw a window of opportunity. I started running.

Bower took that opportunity to stay right where he was. Maybe he thought by letting the Reaver stand over him, he could shoot at its vulnerable underbelly and save the day. Maybe he didn't notice the things advancement at all.

For his credit, I doubt he was afraid-the man was a bully, not a coward.

Whatever the case, I got to the Packhorse and turned around just in time to see Jacob Bower fold in on himself like an accordion. Under pressure of the Reaver's thousand-pound arm, his insides had nowhere to go but out.

Luckily I don't have nightmares. But if I did, his death would be the one to keep me up at night. God knows I've been having enough daydreams about it.

"It is what it is" doesn't really cover everything, so for the record: I'm not proud of being the only person who got out of there alive, but I'm not apologizing, either. If going back at some point and getting their tags helps everyone feel a little less butthurt about what happened, then great. But a few snotty comments made by a few uninformed assholes in the mess hall isn't going to make my heart heavy or my tummy hurt, so no need to try.

Theta Squad chose poorly. I didn't. Boo-fucking-hoo.

I got in the truck and went to turn the key. There was no key.

I won't lie, for half a second my jaw dropped and my blood boiled.

Regulations dictate that keys stay in the ignition for this very reason, but we all know what kind of person Bower was by now. I spared the pigheaded son of a bitch a glance, but fuck if I knew which pocket he'd bothered to use. Anyway, he wasn't the only thing in about a million different pieces. That key was unequivocally dead, too, so it was on to plan B.

Oh, to jump start a vehicle. If my grandfather hadn't beat the living shit out of me every time I messed with one of his old jalopies, I would consider those early summer mornings spent practicing in his garage to be some of my fondest childhood memories.

 _Once upon a time, stood on a toolbox, up to my elbows in learning_ , and so forth.

Don't worry, I won't bore you with recollections from the dog days of boyhood, or the science behind hotwiring a Packhorse. Just know that it wasn't a fun time.

The truck wasn't so bad, though.

For what it's worth, the Reaver was ignoring me. Maybe it hadn't noticed that I'd booked it down the street, but I'm of the opinion that 'smooshed people goo' is just more captivating to their kind. Hey, maybe it was something altogether deeper, but you don't want to hear my theories about a flying squid contemplating life outside enslavement, do you? Yeah, I thought not.

Either way, Flyboy (is it weird if I name it?) stayed put, poking and hissing and (maybe) pondering its own existence. How long that welcome lack of attention/existential crisis would last, I didn't know. Plus, the things rockets were still launching, which meant with some good aim, decent timing, and a little bad luck, I'd go up like a drum of imulsion set to the tune of 'Baby, you're a firework', except I really didn't want to be.

Think of a sitting duck. Square it, name it Damon, and there I was.

And yet.

You'll probably call my ability to get the Packhorse started in less than two minutes a "product of superior COG training" or some similar brand of bullshit. I call it talent. The feelings that went with the engine turning over might've even been classified as "warm" or "fuzzy", but then again, I wasn't given very long to process them.

Now, I know that some of the people reading this have serious heart conditions that render said organ cold, black, or nonexistent. Others in your little clubhouse have never met the umbrella-toting cricket that tells them right from wrong, so we'll have to excuse them too.

But maybe there are a few of you that have been experiencing a nagging sensation for the past eight to ten paragraphs; something similar to the nagging sensation that _I'd_ been experiencing for the past eight to ten minutes.

The line you're looking for is "aren't we forgetting something?"

And yeah, close, but it was actually some _one_.

Private Miles-yes, _that_ Private Miles-decided to come out of hiding. I guess the minute he heard the Packhorse, panic set in, and he figured himself a goner; kind of a late-onset fight or flight response, and he suddenly chose flight.

Hate to break it to you, but things went the route of Icarus real quick.

See, his chosen hiding-spot this whole time had been the building behind Flyboy. To get to me from where he was would require a hell of an act. In light of our situation, there were a few roles he could've taken on that would have sufficed. _Incognito Spy_ , for instance. _Stoic Hero_ , another good choice. Shit, I would've been happy with _Action Man_ , if it meant a distraction, or an over-the-top plan, or _something_.

He went with Damsel in Distress, complete with all the theatrics you could possibly imagine. His high-pitched screams certainly caught the Reaver's attention.

Me? I've never wanted to simultaneously cry and run someone over up until that point. Don't worry, though. I kept the waterworks in check.

Hey, before you get any funny ideas about sticking a bag over my head and shouting 'fire' at sunrise, let me explain.

See, with Mile's running at me and Flyboy stomping after him, there was suddenly no time to get to the turret. I could've turned left or right onto the road, ensuring my own safety, but instead made the selfless decision to floor it into my coworker.

...Okay, I can see how that's still kind of disturbing. I'm not done yet.

They were fifty yards away, roughly. The Reaver was still firing rockets, which left me a thirteen second window to grab Miles and turn out of the blast radius. Obviously, I couldn't stop the truck to do that. Luckily, I didn't have to.

Disowning all instincts regarding self-preservation, I accelerated, fast, and drove head on into Private Miles. After hitting the hood of the Packhorse, he rolled up the windshield and into the waiting embrace of the truck bed. It was all rather graceful, considering.

No, I'm not going to explain my reasoning or thought process or how I knew that would even work other then that I was attending La Croix at fifteen. You do the head scratching. I'll do the math.

Sharp turn, big boom, yada yada, and then we were off-me navigating the unfamiliar streets of Hale with a white-knuckled grip, and Miles doing his best to break the rear-view window instead of...oh, I don't know...manning the turret and saving our asses. Evidently, he thought the sardine-can interior of our vehicle would be safer. That, or he was lonely out there.

By then, I'd gotten us a few blocks, swerving to avoid Flyboy's missiles and increasingly daring kamikaze attempts. He was back in the air and I was hoping to lose him, utilizing as many alleyways and underpasses as I could come across.

I flinched when shards of glass flew into my hair. Miles had taken to using his helmet, apparently, and the window stood no chance against such a combination as metal and hysterics. Next thing I knew, he was clamoring into the back seat, then up into the front seat.

I remember only a few more things-Miles, a mess of curly brown hair and freckles and sweat. His wails, incessant and incomprehensible and even younger sounding, now that his helmet was gone. His hand, reaching out, grabbing my arm, grabbing the steering wheel.

I wish I could recall every detail of the crash-how it happened, what went wrong. But nothing is ever as simple as fading to black.

Honestly, it just feels like I went to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Speaking of falling asleep, is it maybe possible to doze off in this godforsaken place without waking up to a strongly-worded note? Apparently not, because according to this _new_ slice of passive-aggressive bullshit, my last few submissions havn't been 'specific' enough.

Right.

Well don't worry, Whatever-The-Fuck-Your-Name-Is from record-keeping; the next time I get in a car crash, I'll bring a little notebook with me and-while barrel-rolling towards certain death-document the time of day, what the weather was like, and just how many go-rounds it took for me to come to a complete stop. Could I also interest you in the blood type of a distant cousin, or perhaps my favorite color when I was four?

If you seriously don't believe me (or are plagued with the irksome habit of just _needing_ to see things for yourself) I'm sure that there's more than enough blood, sweat, and tears left behind by yours truly to play Hansel and Gretel with, so knock yourselves out. In the meantime, here's a few things that I do remember in vivid detail:

I woke up to the taste of blood and the pleasant sensation of a shoulder being dislocated, the latter of which sounded a whole lot like a champagne bottle, only it was popping in the socket of my arm and muffled under layers of tissue and skin. The car was on fire and flipped on its roof, and Miles and I were hanging ever so comfortably upside down, those lifesaving things called 'seatbelts' making sure we didn't do anything silly, like leave. An icy drizzle had started during our nap, but as the packhorse had come to a stop inside the awning of a decrepit storefront, Mother Nature would be unable to help douse the flames that were already threatening to cook us alive.

Would our hero be able to free himself in time?!

 _._

There. That an exciting enough narrative for you, Janice? Well stay tuned, you won't _believe_ what happens next.

...Except maybe you will, if I've painted an accurate enough picture of Miles. Here, I'll add another _detail_ for you: He was an asshole.

My vision was fractured into thirds, and I couldn't form words outside a jumble of consonnents that was meant to sound like 'fuck' or something similar. My knife-a typically loyal companion that had fallen into treachery during our tumble-lay just within Miles' reach and painfully out of mine. Completely aware of what was going on, I felt like a spectator behind the eyes of a different human being, watching panicked and helpless as Miles came to himself and reached for the blade.

 _But why the unease, Damon? Your comrade has the knife, he will be able to free himself, and then you!_

Well shit, that really _would_ have been nice.

See Miles, he began sawing away at his seatbelt with a type of hectic composure that really would have benefited us earlier. Maybe the ten or so years between us really did make a difference in terms of vitality, or maybe I just hit my head harder than he did. Either way, all I could do was watch it happen in slow motion; him falling down onto the roof of the truck, him kicking the passenger-side door out. Him saying some last words that I couldn't make out above the ringing in my head.

Him, leaving me, taking the knife right along without a second thought.

It occured to me, then, that I'd been trying out 'optimism' like sugar-free ice cream; hesitantly, and with very low expectations. Why it took being left behind in a burning vehicle to finally realize just how shitty it all tasted, though, is beyond me. I've come to the conclusion that I won't be making healthy choices anymore, despite well-meaning suggestions from nutritional facts and also my therapist.

The flames got hotter, and the smoke got thicker, and, making good on his namesake, Miles ran further and further away. By the time I actually managed to yell after him, he was in the middle of the street. He looked back and then kept going, and my heart sunk.

I could've pretended that he didn't hear me, if he hadn't looked back.

Desperate, I tried one more time. If I blinked, I would've missed the Reaver swoop down, not even touching the ground as it snatched Private Miles and then sailed off into oblivion to the sound of their combined screams. Gone, just like that.

The silence that followed their echo was almost worse than the haunting echo itself.

Something other than physical discomfort gripped my spine in that moment, because all of a sudden, I was alone. Never one to downplay the importance of solitude, let me clarify that there is a difference between chosen seclusion and flat out isolation:

My dad had dogs when I was younger, creatures as severe and standoffish as the old man himself. They were never pets, but I can still remember a few different times when the house was quiet, my parents gone and the maids and nannies too occupied with their own short reprieve to bother with canines or nasty twelve-year-old boys. Eventually, one of those dogs would sit across the room from me, and I'd look at it, and it'd look at me, and we'd resign ourselves to the fact that silently hating each other was better than nothing.

Of course, I couldn't foresee the company I was about to receive some short minutes later, or just how much it'd remind me of those times with the dogs; the nostalgia of it all would settle in my chest as the day wore on; that begrudging camaraderie, wildly irritating and necessary.

The flames grew, and I realized it didn't matter whether or not I was alone, not right then and there. My legs already had a tan that could make certain politicians jealous, and the lack of oxygen caused by smoke was lulling me into what felt like an anxious (if not permanent) sleep. With my left hand I reached up and felt along my toolbelt-what used to be an impressive assortment of gadgets had dwindled to a single screwdriver. It was my favorite, blue with a chip in the handle, one that had been used to save my squads' collective ass on more than one occasion. (These are _details_ , and I've been told that they're important.)

Without much thought, I jammed the screwdriver into the release of my seatbelt, jimmying it beside the buckle and praying to whatever entity would listen that I'd free myself in time.

Nothing happened except that I managed to fall into a coughing fit, ushering more and more smoke into my lungs with every ragged inhale.

After one full minute, panic took over, a feeling I'd been numb to for the past year or so. Cole had this notion it was because of Delta; that nothing bad could happen to the four of us as long as we were together, or some romantic shit like that. He began referring to it as an _immortality vibe_ , at which point I told him that that was a stupid name for self-confidence.

Of course I would see the error of my ways while dying, scared and alone, as one tends to do. Not that I would ever say so to any of their faces, not even Cole. I'd also like to remind you that this is a confidential document, so no sharing.

Fortunately, the screwdriver managed to pry down the spring of the seat buckle about fourteen seconds later, just as I was slipping out of consciousness. Unfortunately, the sudden release didn't grant my disjointed mind any decent ideas about how to fall; I went head-first, and if my shoulder wasn't dislocated before, it was then, most certainly.

After that; the crawl to freedom is a segmented memory broken up by pain and oxygen-deprivation. One minute, I was curled in the fetal position inside of the smoldering car, the next I was curled in the fetal position just outside of it, taking deep breaths and trying not to vomit. Those lapses continued all the way down the block, where I somehow managed to drag myself to a little building situated on the corner of _I Really Didn't Bother Looking for Street Signs_ and _So Go Fuck Yourself, Janis._

Eventually I wound up inside, where it was dark and fairly dry and comforting in a way that it probably wouldn't have been under any other circumstances. The one good thing about desperation is that it makes you see an opportunity in everything else. Comparatively, you're so blind with wanting a good outcome, you can never really know if those opportunities are _good_ for you. For example:

"In a significant amount of pain, the mechanic was _desperate_ to relocate his shoulder. Blind with wanting _a good outcome_ , he decided to set it himself."

Can anyone tell me _why_ that wasn't a good idea? Because moving a dislocated joint without professional help can result in muscle, ligament and nerve damage? Because it's almost impossible to do on your own? Egotistical? Just plain dumb? Very good, class.

In my defense, I'd gone from actively dying to actively not in a matter of a few minutes, and was in the shaky end-stages of an adrenaline rush. I wasn't in my right mind, how could I be? Really, I blame that nameless action movie I saw when I was twelve; the one where the cop dislocates his own shoulder to escape a straight-jacket to win a bet, and then sets it by slamming it against a wall?

Yeah, it took about three agonizing collisions with the doorframe for me to remember why I don't like fiction: whereas the cop gathered up his winnings to the shock and awe of his coworkers, I'd bitten through my tongue trying not to scream. Because I'm nothing if not stubborn, one last try sent me to the floor, breaths shallow and pride decimated. That was that.

I laid there for what was probably the better part of an hour, once again slipping between different stages of wakefulness. If this whole sleeping beauty routine is getting boring, don't worry; I didn't get any more rest after she showed up.

Not a bit.

She showed up. She. _Her_. The little devil that nearly got me killed. We met during a failed burglary attempt, but don't let that make too much of a shitty first impression. She also kind of saved my life.

As you might have guessed, she was the offspring of Stranded, most of which tend to behave only slightly better than sheep. I don't blame them; the little mites don't know any better, they never have and they probably never will. The worst I've ever had to deal with from a Stranded younger than fifteen is insulting language or the occasional guilt-trip scripted by their parents. As you might've guessed, I've looked at it with a 'sticks and stones' mentality.

 _This_ one decided to forgo sticks and stones altogether, and skip straight to fists.

That's right, after snagging one of my most cherished possessions, she hit me in the face and then hit the road. Charming, right? Not much of a sheep, I admit. But I don't think calling her a more appropriate animal name would be very...well, appropriate.


	4. Chapter 4

I woke up with a start, momentarily oblivious that I'd dislocated my shoulder. I'd call the pain of trying to sit up blinding, but the fact of the matter is, I saw her perfectly:

A child, Stranded by the looks of it, no more than eight or nine, standing over me. If I was to give three words pertaining to her, I'd go with Denim, Curls, and Trouble. Later, after I got a good look at her, the Denim would turn out to be less blue, and the Curls even more red, but the Trouble? That specification couldn't be closer to the truth.

I'm not sure what another human being would've done in that situation, but my knee-jerk reaction to stop and stare didn't seemed unwarranted. People talk about cherubs guiding them towards bright lights when they die. For all I knew, I _could've_ been dead, and if that bedraggled, bug-eyed little scamp was to be my tour guide to the afterlife, then shit-freezing my ass off didn't seem like it would be such a problem for very much longer.

I won't keep you in suspense, though; I wasn't dead. But I guess she thought I was or something, which still seems creepy but at least a little less immoral. During this day and age, _need_ has never had a more serious connotation, and taking something useful off of a person who doesn't require it anymore (re: dead) isn't unheard of, certainly not when it comes to the Stranded. Vulture-Culture is probably something taught to them in diapers.

That being said, she did not _need_ a pair of engineering goggles that were too big for her, especially not when I had an assortment of gadgets, rations, and first-aid supplies on my person that held far more use. The fact that they sit on my forehead might've suggested an easy accessibility, but in that, she was wrong; I've worn the things for close to ten years. That they're not attached to me by anything other than their leather band is miraculous. All it took was a slight tug on them for me to jolt awake, and then there we were.

Curls, Denim, Trouble. I think I scared her about as much as she surprised me, but her lack of concussion and my possession of one decided the difference in reaction time-during the two seconds in which I could only stare blankly, she finished the job of taking off my goggles and then spun on her heel. Shoulder pain was momentarily forgotten; the fear of losing one's most prized possession is a striking motivator, apparently. I managed to lean forward and grab the strap of her overalls. She spun around and punched me in the face.

Yes, her hand was tiny, so the force wasn't all there, but her aim was. And if a piece of dust can make someone's eyes water when the two make contact, than a well-placed fist most _certainly_ will, child-sized or not. In the time it took me to rear back and blink the clouds away, she'd scampered from my grip and out the door.

The fact that she still had my goggles is obviously the reason I decided to go after her, but maybe my underdeveloped shoulder angel also mentioned something about her being a 'small, helpless child.' We can use _that_ as the driving force behind why I followed her, you know, for posterity.

If I was the type of person to solicit for validation, this is where you'd pat my back.

Anyway, I caught up to her when we were both in the middle of the street, that image of Miles being snatched by a Reaver still fresh in my mind. Keeping my right arm as still as possible, I grabbed her wrist with my left, yanking her to a stop. She screamed, not out of fear so much as complete and utter rage. Once more spinning around, she started swinging her arms, growling and squealing all the while.

"Hey, knock it off!" I shouted. It wasn't my intention to add another raised voice to the attention-grabbing cacophony she was already putting out, but I was tired, and hurting, and wanting desperately to get her to calm down enough for us to talk. About _what_ is anyone's guess; if you have any conversation starters for a mechanic and the surly middle-schooler who'd just burglarized his unconscious form, let me know.

In hindsight, yelling wasn't a great idea but, as you'll soon find out, volume didn't really turn out to be an issue anyway.

Thirty seconds went by with her pulling and kicking and flailing, but it wasn't until she managed to strike my injured arm that I yanked her closer to me, grip tightening around her wrist. She flinched, but didn't stop swinging.

"Are you fucking _trying_ to get us killed?" I had half a mind to just grab my goggles and let her go, thinking that if she really wanted to brave the world by herself, who was I to stop her? Thanks, Mom and Dad, for setting such a great example.

But then I noticed something; her free hand wasn't in a fist at all, but moving into dozens of different shapes, rapid fire. Similarly, her arm wasn't moving _towards_ me, but up and down, from her head to her chest to her face. What looked for a moment to my jostled brain like an attempt at intricately-formed shadow puppets suddenly made a whole lot more sense; she was trying to communicate.

She was deaf.

The minute she saw my face soften with realization, she stopped her desperate signs and yanked her wrist from my grasp. I let her. She didn't run, but wiped her nose with the back of her hand, brow furrowed, little frame shaking as she tried to stop a swell of angry tears.

"You're deaf," I said, out loud this time. Obviously, she couldn't hear, but seemed to relax marginally, knowing that I finally understood the situation. With blazing grey eyes and a wobbling bottom lip, she flipped me off.

I guess I deserved that much.

What might've happened if the Locust hadn't show up is a mystery to me, because at that moment, they did. Convenient? I think so. Those scaly bastards have a flare for the dramatic, no question; the way an E-Hole will suddenly crumble open at just the right time, them crawling out and uttering a few choice phrases like 'destroy' or some equally cliched line of shit. With their voices garbled and messy, one wonders if they have to practice their Tyran every night before bedtime.

The kid may not have been able to hear them, but she didn't need to-the ground shook as it began to cave in a little ways down the street, a tell-tale sign of incoming grubs. She took off, and for the second time that day, I followed her. By the time we got back inside the building on the corner (a pre-war deli, as it turns out) they were marching right where we had stood.

My heart pounding in my chest, I crouched behind the counter at the back of the store, the girl right beside me. With just a snub pistol, I thought assessing the situation would be smarter than diving right in, plus now I had the girl to think about. I glanced at her. She didn't look afraid, but I didn't know how she would react to the inevitable blood-spatter that would ensue post contact, either.

So we watched, me and her, through the glass display case under the counter that had miraculously survived years of quakes and explosions. As the Locust made their way up the street, I made mental notes, documenting as best I could through the dirty glass how many there were, what faction, etcetera. Most of what I saw were Theron guards, but I didn't know whether to feel grateful for their lack of guns or sick at the prospect of dying at the hands of their machetes, which were bigger than the kid.

After what felt like years, they were gone, disappearing down the road, no doubt inspecting the totaled Pack Horse. I hoped they wern't smart enough to notice Mile's cut seatbelt and realize that such a thing spelled out 'escapee.' Whatever the case, they hadn't seen us, and at that moment, that was good enough for me.

I allowed myself an exhale, closing my eyes and leaning my forehead against the frosty glass. When I opened them again, I saw the girl through a smear of blood I'd left behind. She was out in the road again, and I almost had a heart attack.

"Hey, wait!" I hissed, ignoring once more the fact that she was deaf. Groaning as I pushed myself to my feet, I ran after her, limping until we were both side by side. She looked up at me-scowled-but didn't stop walking, heading in the opposite direction of the Locust.

And for some reason, I kept following. It was either that or stay put in the deli, less than a block away from certain death. At least by keeping with the girl, I was putting some distance between me and the grubs. Anyway, I had to try my TacCom, even though the white noise that greeted me when I pressed on it was predictable; Nemacyst still littered the sky, inky clouds floating lower than usual. Like hell I could get a message off through that.

"Hey," I said again, waving my hand by her face and then stepping in front of her completely. She huffed and glared and stopped walking.

Finally getting a decent look at her, I realized that my original estimation of eight or nine years old was off. That, or she was really small for her age. Now that we were both standing, she barely reached my hip, and I could see bones poking from her fingers and wrists. The overalls she wore scooped well past her ankles, the cuffs of them catching underneath her sneakers, and a dirty green backpack clung to her shoulders.

"Okay kid," I said. The words were more for me as I gestured at the goggles still clamped in her hand. Otherwise, we were just playing charades. "This has been fun and all, but I'm going to need those back."

Clearly, she didn't want to give them up but relented after about twenty seconds, tossing them at me with more force than necessary. I caught them against my chest, remembered the apparent cut on my forehead, and then hooked them to my toolbelt.

"Do you have parents?" I said slowly, annunciating the words, seeing if she could read lips. That hard expression stayed on her face, and she started signing, real slow, mocking me.

"Ok, I can see how I deserved that one…" I muttered. I rubbed my eyes and took another breath, trying to think of a way to communicate. It's not like I could just leave her out there. Plus, she was a local, which meant a certain knowledge of the area, at least to some extent. If I wanted to get back to Jacinto (which I really, _really_ did) I'd need to know where that was in relation to where I _currently_ was.

A rustling sound broke into my thoughts. I looked down, and the kid had slipped off her backpack. While I watched, she pulled out a small chalkboard that gave me traumatizing flashbacks of grade school, and a smaller drawstring bag that rattled with chalk. She handed them both to me like I was an idiot. I rolled my eyes and crouched down, placing the board on the sidewalk because by then, my right arm had gone more or less numb.

"Do you have parents?" My handwriting sucked, but it was ledgible. So I was confused when, after showing her the board, she just shrugged.

"You don't know?" I was trying to be patient, reminding myself that it wouldn't be ethical to ask a child if they were an idiot. But seriously?

She shook her head and grabbed the board from me, erasing my words with the cuff of her sleeve, scribbling and then turning the board back my way.

Have you ever been in a bad situation that gets systematically worse?

You know that 'sinking feeling' everyone talks about?

The kid had drawn a stick figure, and upon closer inspection, it looked a lot like her, dozens of squiggly lines signifying a mop of curls. It had on overalls, and a backpack, and above it she'd written "I-N-N-O-W-A-E" in big letters, the 'E' sitting backwards.

For a horrifying second, I thought maybe my concussion had turned into a full on stroke. I blinked, hard, but "INNOWAE" was still all she'd written. Trying not to think about how much time was going by-or how monumentally screwed I really was-I took the board back and, not even bothering to erase her sketch, wrote

"?"

Again, she gave me a look like I really shouldn't be out on my own, pointing at the stick figure, the "INNOWAE," and then herself.

So _she_ was Innowae. I would've gotten that a lot sooner, if the Stranded wern't so opposed to traditional names. What's wrong with 'Sally' or 'Jane' is anyone's guess.

"And you can't read," I grumbled, recognizing that her blocky, backwards letters meant a minimal grasp on written language. Resigning myself to the fact that I wasn't getting home any time soon, I erased her drawing, and started on my own.

It was her, and a man on her left, and a woman on her right, a shaky doodle of my previous question about her parents. It sucked, coming from by nondominant hand, but if this was her usual means of communication, I was holding out hope that she was used to deciphering other people's crappy stick figures.

I turned it towards her and, much to my relief, her face relaxed in understanding. She took the chalk, erased the man, and scribbled violently over the woman's chest. So dad was a deadbeat, and mom was dead. Perfect.

Before I could think of what to ask next, she took the board and started drawing.

 _A cross within a circle._ She pointed at my shoulder, my head. I needed first aid.

"Yeah, no shit." I took the board, drew a square, a triangle, added window and door.

 _Home._

She pointed up the road, at nothing in particular, meaning her digs were farther away than I was willing to venture. It's not like the Stranded were going to give me a working vehicle, anyway, and that's if they even had one at all. And _that's_ if Innowae even lived with anyone, which I was beginning to think she didn't.

I drew me, next to the house. _I need to get home._

She shrugged and drew a King Raven. _So call your friends._

Pressing my fingers into my eyes, I debated the merits of sketching an elaborate scene explaining how the Nemacyst fritz our comms and make communication impossible. I got as far as drawing Hale's skyline and some clouds before I noticed something: The ink, like in real life, was unusually low. Whether that be from today's shitty temperature or a particularly lazy Seeder didn't matter, I realized.

If I could get above the Nemacyst, I might be able to get a message through to Jacinto.

It was worth a try, anyway, and it's not like I was teeming with any other bright ideas. Erasing the buildings, I drew one, a tall one with lots of windows. I showed the kid.

She furrowed her brow and shook her head, so I drew an up-pointing arrow next to the building and me beside it, as small as I could manage with a stump of chalk.

My question: _Where is the tallest building in Hale?_

When it dawned on her, she took her time drawing a reply, coming up with an admittedly detailed picture of a church with a belltower that overlooked the whole city.

Very vaguely, I remembered seeing that church when I was younger; a picture in a glossy magazine proclaiming the marriage of two celebrity nobodies. Because Hale is prone to quakes, there was some controversy about the height of the cathedral when it was first built, but I guess the architect knew what he was doing.

So I had a plan, or at least the fragile husk of a plan. All the aches and pains coursing through me suddenly seemed manageable, and I caught a second wind.

I drew her and me at the bottom of the church, and circled us. _Can you take me there?_

Her reply?

"$$$"

My mouth fell open before managing the words "Are you fucking serious?"

Don't make that face, it's not like she heard me.

The slight chance that she was joking died when I looked at her, and her face remained an impassive wall. Shit, Marcus and her would've got along swimmingly. I really shouldn't have been surprised, she was _Stranded_ for god's sake. She didn't need parents to drill shrewdness into her. It was an inherent quality.

I could've opted to find the church myself, and _would_ have, if plenty of time was something I possessed. But I didn't, and still didn't like the idea of leaving the kid by herself, either. She'd backed me into a corner and she knew it.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the lining to show her just how much money I didn't have. She wasted no time in pointing at my toolbelt.

She wanted my goggles.

In any other situation, I wouldn't have even let her make the suggestion. But at that point, I was drained enough to compromise. Taking the chalkboard one more time, I drew the deli, and her, and me. I drew the goggles on her forehead. She nodded, following along. Next, I drew the church, and me and her, but this time, the goggles were on _my_ head. In short, I was letting her _borrow_ the goggles, but only for the duration of our trip. That was all she was going to get.

Again, she pondered my offer, an unmistakable sharpness in her eyes. When she finally reached out her hand, I felt my shoulders slump with relief. I handed her the goggles, and then pushed myself to my feet. A minute later, she started walking.

"Fucking terrific," I said, all too aware that I was talking to myself.


End file.
